


Soul-filled

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-31
Updated: 2011-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 05:04:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8698111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: (This is my way of dealing with the CW-enforced extra week of Hellatus – writing my version of what happens after Sam’s soul is restored. A coda to Ep 6.11 – “Appointment in Samarra.” (Dean POV)Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, set in the world of my imagination. The characters of Sam, Dean, Bobby, Castiel and Death are the property of Eric Kripke, Sera Gamble, and the writers and producers of Supernatural. I’m just borrowing them.There are some small scenes taken directly from the show: Death’s instruction to Sam, from “Appointment in Samarra” (credit – Sera Gamble and Robert Singer) and Castiel’s discussion with Dean, from the preview of Ep. 6.12 - “Like a Virgin” (credit – Adam Glass) in an attempt to ground this fictional scenario within Supernatural’s canon. All credit for the words and ideas in these scenes go to these amazing writers – I’m just borrowing their words.Warning – spoiler for Ep. 6.12 “Like a Virgin”Un-beta’d, so all mistakes are entirely my own.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Dean stands resolutely next to Bobby in the doorway of the panic room, and tries not to let the sound of Sam’s screams affect him, as he watches Death, at Sam’s bedside, calmly reach into a black medical-style bag and retrieve Sam’s soul.

 

God, it’s beautiful, Dean thinks – he’s awestruck by the bright, shining orb of light. He can’t believe that something so wondrous can be as damaged; as mutilated as Death had described it. 

 

But Death’s instruction to Sam is… well, it’s dead-serious. “Now, Sam, I’m going to put up a barrier inside your mind. It might feel a little… itchy,” Death intones, ignoring Sam’s yells to stay away. “Do me a favor – don’t scratch the wall. Because, trust me – you’re not going to like what happens.” 

 

Death takes the blazing orb into both hands, and presses it into Sam’s chest. Dean tries not to look directly into the light – it’s so overwhelming, he thinks he might die from its intensity. Instead, he looks at Sam’s face, taking in his brother’s pained grimace, his agonized wail. Taking on the heavy responsibility of his decision to restore Sam’s soul.

 

Sam’s body goes rigid and he gives out one last, heart-wrenching yell; then abruptly goes silent. The panic room returns to its normal dimness, and Dean exchanges a wide-eyed look with Bobby, as Bobby thrusts the small metal handcuff key into Dean’s hand. Dean rushes over to Sam’s still, unconscious form on the cot, falling to his knees on the cold concrete floor. He reaches a hand up to Sam’s face and neck, relieved to feel Sam’s warm skin and irregular yet strong pulse. 

 

He quickly releases Sam’s hands from the metal cuffs; gently rubbing his brother’s chafed wrists with his fingers. He watches as Sam’s shallow, erratic breathing normalizes; and places his hand on Sam’s broad chest, watching it evenly rise and fall, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

 

“You need to give it time, for his soul to settle in, Dean,” Death advises, as he rises from the bed, his staff in hand, and snaps the hinges of the medical bag shut. “And he hasn’t slept in over a year – his body and mind need to rest.”

 

“For how long?” Dean doesn’t take his eyes off of Sam’s face.

 

“As long as it takes.”

 

“But then he’ll be OK?” 

 

“I told you… there’s a seventy-five percent chance that the wall will stay intact.”

 

Dean will take the odds – he’ll do anything to keep the wall in Sam’s mind from crumbling. And if somehow, it breaks … Dean silently vows to do anything to fix it, to fix Sam. Anything is better than knowing that Sam’s soul would stay in hell; damned for all time.

 

Dean looks up to see Death standing there, watching them appraisingly. “Thank you,” Dean says in a reverent whisper.

 

“There’s no need to thank me, Dean,” Death says, matter-of-factly. “I know you will earn this. Sam will awaken, and you two can have a… reunion… together.” Death’s emphasis on the last two words leaves Dean with no doubt that the Horseman knows all about him and Sam and their relationship, and the thought of it unnerves Dean. But of course he would be omniscient – he’s Death, after all.

 

Death continues, “And then I fully expect you to get back to your investigation into the souls situation. And you’ll report your findings to me.” 

 

“Yes, of course…” Dean nods; he knows he owes Death, and at this point he’d agree to do almost anything to re-pay this debt.

 

“And, Dean?” Death’s stern voice gets Dean’s full attention. “The next time I come for you and your brother… and I will come for you eventually, sooner than later I think… I mean to keep you.”

 

Dean’s eyes widen and his mouth goes dry as he takes in the gravity of Death’s message. “Yes, I understand…” 

 

“Good.” There’s a harsh flash of light and the cell vibrates with the power of Death’s energy, and Dean leans his face against Sam’s warm neck and closes his eyes. When he looks up again, Death is gone. 

 

***

 

And so Dean’s vigil begins. 

 

Unconscious Sam is a dead weight, so Dean decides to keep him right here in the panic room, rather than try to struggle to get him upstairs. The cot is small and narrow, and the mattress is thin, but it supports Sam’s sleeping body well enough. 

 

In one of the medical books in Bobby’s extensive library, he and Bobby find a way to hook Sam up to an IV. Dean makes up a saline solution, and it drips into one of the ropy veins of Sam’s forearm, keeping him hydrated until he wakes up. 

 

If he ever wakes up, Dean thinks, at times when it seems like Sam’s been out for too long, and a heavy dread settles over him. 

 

Bobby mostly stays upstairs; checking on them now and then. Dean can’t blame him for his reluctance to stick around and wait for Sam to wake up. Bobby had been seconds away from dying at Sam’s ruthless hands – a blood sacrifice for Sam’s desperate, dark spell to lock his body up tight against the unwanted intrusion of his soul. Dean can hardly believe that he got there just in time to intervene and save their surrogate father’s life. 

 

But Bobby seems to understand Dean’s need to watch over Sam; to be there for Sam when he wakes up. He brings Dean coffee, whiskey and sandwiches; urges him to drink and eat, to keep his strength up for whatever he’ll have to face when Sam finally opens his eyes. Dean just picks at the sandwiches; his stomach is in knots and he barely has any appetite. He drinks cup after cup of coffee, to stay awake; and he belts shots of whiskey – always the Winchester way of dealing with overwhelming situations.

 

The panic room is dim – there are no windows, and the only source of light comes from the vent in the ceiling, that’s covered by a metal devil’s trap. Dean loses track of time – when the room goes dark he’s not sure if it’s truly night or just an overcast day. When he’s overcome with fatigue, he slumps in a chair next to Sam’s bed, and takes brief catnaps – on the alert for any small sound that his ears might pick up, or any flash of movement seen beneath his drowsing eyelids.

 

The only times he leaves Sam’s side are for brief but necessary breaks in the small bathroom attached to the panic room, and even then, he leaves the door cracked. He’s worried that Sam might wake up, disoriented and alone, and he can’t let that happen.

 

He wonders how Sam spent his time, all those long, sleepless nights in their motel rooms after hunting, while Dean took fitful naps. That’s one of the many things Dean wonders about Sam; he wonders if he’ll ever get any answers.

 

Dean recalls when Sam died after being stabbed by Azazel’s minion Jake Talley – this situation feels depressingly like a re-tread of that dark, helpless time before he desperately made the deal with the crossroad demon to bring Sam back from the dead. 

 

Like he did then, Dean sits beside his brother’s still form, just looking at him and talking to him quietly, remembering everything they’ve been through together, since they were kids, in the hunting life. At times, he’s overcome by helplessness and apprehension, and he paces around the vault, working off the nervous energy. Sometimes he drops to his knees next to Sam, watching his brother intently, making sure he’s still breathing; hand on Sam’s heart, making sure it’s still beating. 

 

And Dean whispers, “Please…” and “Sam…” over and over – a mantra, a prayer. Though he has no idea who or what he’s praying to; if anyone out there is listening or even cares. 

 

***

 

Dean’s lightly dozing when he hears a shuffling sound in the doorway. His eyes snap open to focus on Sam – he’s still unconscious – and then he twists around to see Bobby standing there, a cup of coffee in his hand. 

 

“How is he?” the older man asks, handing Dean the cup and eyeing Sam warily. 

 

“No change,” Dean tells him. He notices the hunting vest that Bobby’s wearing, the duffle slung over Bobby’s shoulder. “What’s up, Bobby?”

 

“Listen, Dean – you know you can stay as long as you need to, even after Sam wakes up,” Bobby says. “But I’ve gotta hit the road. Rufus called – he needs my help with a job. Some poltergeist wreaking havoc in a tavern in Milwaukee.”

 

Dean knows that Bobby’s just glad to have an excuse to be out of the house and not have to face Sam whenever he wakes up; that he’d rather help Rufus hunt a known creature than deal with whatever might be left of Sam, now that he has his damaged soul back. But Dean gets it, so he plays along. “I bet he hopes the owner will pay him with a bottle of Blue Label.”

 

“Well, if so, then he’s sharing it with me,” Bobby grouses. “Seems like lately he’s always calling on me to back up his sorry ass, and what do I get? Hardly even a thank-you.”

 

“How 'bout the satisfaction of great teamwork? Rufus knows you’re one of the best – that’s why he keeps calling.”

 

“You’re just laying on the compliments, cause I’m leaving you with a fridge full of food and beer, and a fireplace full of wood.”

 

“Hospitality at its finest – thanks Bobby.” Dean gives him a grim grin and clasps the older man’s shoulder. “Be careful out there.”

 

“You be careful, Dean. Take care of your brother.” Bobby turns away; then looks back. “And when Sam wakes up, tell him I said welcome back.” 

 

Dean closes the door behind him, and sips his coffee slowly, contemplating Sam. He knows Sam needs the healing rest, but he’s getting worried. He needs Sam to wake up, soon.

 

***

 

Dean’s pacing again, wondering what he should do. His arms crossed over his chest, he rubs absently through his shirt at the raised skin, in the shape of Castiel’s handprint; burned into his arm when the angel pulled him out of Hell. 

 

And then he knows. Even though Cas is embroiled in Heaven’s battle royale, he’s always been there for Dean – Cas even said they share a profound bond, and Dean thinks the angel feels a sense of responsibility to him. He trusts the angel who saved him like he trusts no other unearthly being. Surely Cas will be able to help somehow; Dean’s not sure what exactly he can do, but it’s worth a try. 

 

He stands in the doorway of the panic room, bends his head, and scrunches his eyes closed. He focuses his mind on the image of the angel’s serious face, and whispers, “Cas? Listen; if you can hear me, I know you’re busy with Heaven and all, but me and Sam – we really need your help here.” 

 

He hears a loud flutter of wings, and whips his head up to see the angel, standing too close, as always; staring intently into Dean’s face.

 

Now that he’s confronted with Castiel, Dean doesn’t know what to say. But somehow, the angel already knows.

 

“You had Sam re-souled, didn’t you, Dean? You made a deal with Death for his soul.”

 

Dean gulps – the last time Cas was this angry, he’d pounded Dean into a wall. “I had to, Cas,” he says in a small voice.

 

“What do you want from me then, Dean?”

 

“Please, can you just check to see if he’s all right?”

 

The angel glances past him into the panic room, and then gives Dean a hard look. “Fine, Dean – I will check, but you will have to live with the outcome of your decision.”

 

He goes into the panic room, and the door closes with a metallic clang behind him.

 

***

 

Finally, after an interminable amount of time, the door creaks open and Cas steps through it, rolling down the cuff of his white shirt beneath his trench coat. Dean looks after him, feeling a small twinge of hope in his chest.

 

But the angel’s words are harsh, his tone of voice flat, as he explains that Sam’s soul is in place, but he probably won’t wake up.

 

Dean’s stunned. If Sam’s soul is back, then why can’t he just wake up and be all right? He reverts to his defensive snark. “Huh. Well, don’t sugar-coat it.”

 

“I’m sorry, Dean – but I warned you not to put that thing back inside him.” Castiel seems as pissed-off as angels can get. 

 

Dean’s own anger rises up, and he snaps, “What was I supposed to do? Let T-1000 walk around; hope he doesn’t open fire?”

 

Cas steps forward, in Dean’s face. “Let me tell you what his soul felt like when I touched it,” he seethes. “Like it had been skinned alive, Dean.” 

 

The imagery leaves Dean speechless.

 

“If you had wanted to kill your brother, you should have done it outright.” 

 

A sense of righteousness flares up in Dean, but before he can mention the fact that Sam’s soul would still be suffering in Hell if Death hadn’t retrieved it, Cas disappears in a flurry of beating wings. 

 

And Dean’s alone, gazing into the panic room to see Sam lying there, unmoving. He lets out a disheartened breath and collapses into the chair next to the cot, wondering if he did the right thing.

 

***

 

He hears a shifting sound on the mattress, and glances over, but Sam has just stirred in his sleep. Dean sighs, and kneels on the floor next to the cot; his chin propped on his hand, and just looks at Sam for a long moment. His brother looks so young and innocent in repose; it’s almost hard to believe that his soul could be so volatile and the mental wall could be so unstable inside him.

 

He takes in Sam’s dark, bed-head hair framing his face; his furrowed brow; long lashes resting on smooth cheeks; the round mole at the side of his nose; the sparse shadow of stubble along his jaw and above his lips…

 

Without thinking, Dean closes his eyes, leans in and presses a light, chaste kiss against Sam’s lips.

 

“Dean?” The hoarse whisper makes Dean’s eyes fly open, to look into Sam’s sleepy, inquisitive gaze. Dean holds his breath, as he watches Sam’s hazel eyes slowly focus on his. And he lets out a long sigh. They’re no longer the empty shark eyes he’d dreaded to still see, but the soft, warm puppy-dog eyes that he’d always teased his little brother about.

 

Sam… his Sam is back.

 

Dean’s own eyes fill with tears of relief and gratitude, but he holds them back, ready to be strong, in case his brother is fragile. He settles for joking. “Really? It took a kiss to wake you up?” Dean can’t help but grin. “Unbelievable – guess I’m your hero then, Princess.” 

 

“Don’t call me that; I’m not your princess, Dean,” Sam grumbles, but an uncertain smile is on his face. 

 

Sam looks and sounds so much like the brother he’s always known, and Dean smiles widely. “Fine, then I’ll just call you Bitch.”

 

“Jerk.” Sam’s grinning now, too, and Dean moves in close and wraps his brother up in a tight hug.

 

“Ahh, Sammy,” he sighs. “It’s good to have you back.”


	2. Chapter 2

  
Author's notes: (Part 2 of 3 - Dean & Sam's reunion after Sam gets his soul back. I've added a "missing scene" for Ep. 6.09 - "Clap Your Hands If You Believe" - spoilers for Ep. 6.09)  


* * *

“How do you feel, Sam?” Dean asks, as he gently removes the IV from Sam’s arm. “You were out for awhile, there.”

 

“OK, I guess… tired…” Sam glances at the IV; then gives Dean a confused look. “How long have I been asleep?”

 

“Dunno – I lost track of time. Maybe a week; a couple of days more.”

 

“A week?” 

 

“Well, you said it yourself – you didn’t sleep; probably haven’t since you came back last year…” 

 

Sam looks bewildered, and Dean studies him carefully, wondering about the soundness of Sam’s mind, worried that any questions might be too much for Sam to take. But he needs to know where they stand right now; that will determine the future.

 

And so he cautiously asks, “Sam… do you remember this last year?”

 

Sam raises his eyes; scrunching his forehead with a frown; then a distant look creeps across his face.

 

“Yeah… some of it, I guess. I remember that I never had to sleep. I remember hunting… with Samuel. And the cousins… I remember saving you from that djinn… I remember us hunting together again.” He gives his head a little shake. “But it’s kind of fuzzy, like it happened a long time ago… or like it happened to someone else…”

 

“Well, you were sort of like someone else.” Dean says. He knows it’s a lot for Sam to comprehend, and he tries to mitigate it with a joke. “I called you ‘Robo-Sam,’ remember?”

 

“Yeah, I guess I was really different from before.” Sam looks distressed. “I remember Castiel saying that my soul was missing… and then Death giving it back.” A pained look crosses his face. “It hurt so much when he put my soul back… and when he put up that wall…”

 

“But the important thing is that it’s back now, Sam. You’re whole now.” Dean rubs small, comforting circles on Sam’s back, and anxiously casts about for a way to steer their thoughts away from the fragile wall, at least until he can figure out just how stabile Sam is right now.

 

Then Dean’s stomach growls and Sam’s rumbles, too, as if in answer. Dean smiles; grateful for the distraction.

 

“Hungry, Sam? We can talk more, later.”

 

“Yeah… guess I could eat something.”

 

Dean groans with another hunger pang, and Sam says, “Dude, when was the last time you ate?”

 

“I had some coffee earlier,” Dean admits. 

 

“So, what were you doing? Starving yourself while waiting on me? What if I didn’t wake up for another few days?”

 

“Doesn’t matter – you’re awake now.” Dean rests a steadying hand on Sam’s arm as he gets off of the cot. “C’mon; we’ll see what’s in the fridge.”

 

Sam stands on shaky legs, so Dean throws an arm around him and supports his heavy weight as he walks Sam unsteadily through the basement. They pause to rest at the bottom of the staircase.

 

“OK, Sam?” Dean gasps for a breath, leaning on the railing; and looks up into his brother’s eyes. It’s so hard bearing Sam’s solid mass, but Dean can’t let him know that. 

 

“Yeah,” Sam is breathless, too – he sways against Dean, and Dean holds him tightly upright.

 

“It’s alright, Sammy – I’ve got you. We’ll just take it one step at a time.” And they do. It seems as if they’re climbing a mountain, but they finally make it to the top, and Dean throws his shoulder against the door, pulling Sam behind him. 

 

Dean wrestles Sam through the back hall and into the kitchen, and props him against the counter, where they stand together for a long moment, until Sam seems to get his balance and can lean unsupported against the linoleum surface. 

 

He can feel Sam’s eyes on him as he fills the coffee maker with grounds; then rummages through the refrigerator, and pulls out bread, deli meat, and cheese for sandwiches. When the coffee’s ready, he pours two mugs, and adds a dash of whiskey – just to take the edge off. 

 

They eat at Bobby’s small round table in his dining room, and Dean glances over as Sam nibbles at his sandwich and sips his coffee wordlessly. He knows his brother has a lot of questions, and he has a lot more for Sam, too. But now’s not the time to get that deep into it, especially since they’re sitting at the same table where Dean had that intense conversation with Death. He knows it was a turning point, and Sam needs to know that Death wants them to keep digging until they uncover whatever he wants to know about souls. 

 

So instead, he keeps their talk light, telling Sam about Bobby’s latest hunt with Rufus.

 

“Hmm, Rufus has been calling on Bobby a lot lately. Thought they can hardly stand each other.” Sam grins wryly as he drains his coffee cup.

 

Naah, that’s just what they say,” Dean says. “But they’re like an old married couple.”

 

“Just don’t tell Bobby that – he’ll kick your ass, man!” Sam laughs, his dimples flashing. “But I know what you mean – they should make a movie about those two.”

 

“Yeah – ‘Grumpy Old Ghosthunters,’ – Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau woulda had nothing on Bobby and Rufus,” Dean cracks, and then they’re making up Bobby-and-Rufus action movie scenarios, each one funnier and more outlandish than the last. It’s almost like old times, Dean thinks. And he holds this moment in his mind, wishing he could hang onto it, and keep Sam just the way he is right now.

 

Sam finishes his sandwich and leans back in his chair, running his hands through his sweat-damp hair. “Ugh, I think I need a shower, man.”

 

“Go ahead – I’ll clean up,” Dean says casually. Surely he can leave his brother alone for ten minutes, he tells himself.

 

But as soon as Sam is upstairs, Dean feels anxiety prickling at him, and he tosses the clattering dishes and silverware into the sink – he’ll get to washing them later. He takes the stairs two at a time – he just has to make sure Sam’s still OK.

 

He stands quietly in the bathroom doorway, leaning on the wooden frame, his eyes on Sam’s tall, shadowy figure behind the white nylon shower curtain surrounding the huge, claw-foot tub. 

 

“Comin’ in, Dean?” Sam’s expectant face peeks out through the gap in the shower curtain. Dean feels caught, as he looks back into Sam’s warm, entreating eyes. 

 

“I don’t think there’s enough room in there for both of us, man,” Dean says, even though it’s obvious there’s more than enough space in that tub.

 

“I can make room… it’s just that it’s been a long time since we’ve had a shower together – it would be nice.”

 

Dean looks down at the tiled floor, as he remembers the last time they were in the shower together – it really wasn’t that long ago…

 

***

 

It was the night he’d been abducted by the aliens-who-were-really-fairies; and after he fought his way to freedom, he came back to their motel room, and was dismayed to find Sam banging some patchouli-hippie chick. After she left, and he told Sam about his encounter, he took a much-needed shower – letting the hot water beat down on his neck and shoulders as he closed his eyes and pressed his head against the tiled wall of the stall, hoping it would even out the jagged edges of his nerves.

 

Then he felt the heavy hardness of Sam’s naked body pushing against his back, and Dean shook him off in disgust. There was no way he’d let this soulless bastard screw him, even if it looked like his brother. 

 

Sam had tried to cajole Dean – saying that he knew Dean wanted it; that he remembered how it had been with Dean and how good it was; even suggesting that it might help him get his soul back. But Dean still refused, flinching away from his touch and moving to get out of the shower. 

 

Then Sam said that since Dean had interrupted him before he’d had a chance to get off, it was up to Dean to take care of his blue-balls. So Dean did – he whacked Sam hard in the balls, and cuffed him in the jaw, and when Sam fell back against the shower wall in pain, Dean got the hell out of there. 

 

But later, Dean felt bad – it wasn’t Sam’s fault that losing his soul had stripped away everything but his base instincts. So he took Sam out to the bar, and over a round of beers, he explained that he wasn’t angry just because Sam had screwed the hippie chick, but because Sam coming on to him had made a mockery of the relationship they used to have. And Dean wasn’t going to let the memory of that get ruined by some quick, meaningless sex. 

 

And then he somewhat patiently tried to instruct Sam in the basics of having a soul – instead of looking for sex, Sam should have worried about Dean’s whereabouts and well-being, just as Dean always worried about him. But Sam just didn’t get it, so Dean dropped the subject. And he’d been wary of Sam ever since. 

 

***

 

But now, Sam has his soul back, and looking at his brother’s guileless face, Dean thinks it might actually be OK this time. Besides, he could use a shower too, after spending over a week looking after Sam in the panic room. So he shrugs off his clothes and steps over the high edge of the tub and into the warm spray of water. 

 

Sam hands him the soap, and Dean lathers himself; feeling the streaming water relaxing his sore, tired muscles. He’s aware of Sam’s warm, wet body, so close to him, and he feels a stirring, somewhere deep in his belly.

 

“Wash my back, Dean?” Sam asks softly. “And I can do yours, if you want?” 

 

“Yeah… OK, Sam…” Dean says haltingly, but he soaps up his hands, as Sam turns his back to him.

 

And then Dean is touching the heated smoothness of Sam’s broad back, working his hands up across Sam’s shoulder blades, and down his spine, to his narrow waist and hips. 

 

Sam throws his head back, his water-slick hair streaming down his neck, and lets out a long, breathy, “Ahhh, Dean…” And Dean knows Sam’s feeling good; Dean’s feeling it too; almost too good… 

 

He stills his hands’ movements, and gives Sam an awkward pat on the back; then drops his arms to his sides.

 

“Thanks, Dean…” Sam’s voice is low as he takes the soap from Dean’s hand, and Dean turns to face the shower spray, closing his eyes. He catches his breath, as Sam’s big hands lather his back, kneading his muscles at the same time. It’s been so long since Sam’s touched him like this…

 

For a long moment, it’s just him and Sam; the spattering of water as it courses over their bodies; the steam rising up around them…

 

Then Sam’s lips are on the back of Dean’s neck, soft and wet; Dean can feel Sam’s tongue lapping the water off his skin. Sam’s hands move down to Dean’s ass; and Dean tenses up involuntarily. It’s too much; too soon. 

 

Sam takes a small step back, and Dean turns to him, giving him a small, forced grin as he glances into, then away from, his questioning eyes. 

 

“That’s good, Sammy – thanks.” Dean ignores the hardness between Sam’s thighs; ignores his own growing erection. The moment is broken. 

 

Dean rinses quickly and steps out of the tub to towel off. He hears Sam turn off the taps and grabs another big towel. As Sam pushes back the shower curtain, Dean thrusts the towel at him. “Here you go, Sammy – I’m gonna get dressed.” 

 

Before Sam can say anything, Dean’s out of the bathroom and in their bedroom across the hall. He closes the door, needing to put some distance between him and his brother; needing to put some space between his rational mind and his roiling emotions.


	3. Chapter 3

  
Author's notes: (Part 3 of 3 - Sam and Dean's physical and emotional re-connection after Sam gets his soul back. There are references to S5's "Swan Song" and several S6 episodes (spoilers). I've also referenced my previous Sam/Dean story, "Daybreak" - it doesn't have to be read for this story to make sense, but I guess that this story is now part of that same Sam/Dean 'verse.)  


* * *

In the bedroom, Dean sighs heavily as he grabs some boxers and a pair of jeans from his duffle bag and pulls them on. He puts on a clean T-shirt, and kneels on the floor, rummaging in his bag for a clean pair of socks.

 

He’d expected Sam to follow him in, wanting to discuss what happened in the shower. He’s so intent on trying to find the words to explain why he pushed Sam away that it takes him awhile to realize that his brother must still be in the bathroom.

 

Dean walks barefoot across the hall, to the closed bathroom door. He pushes it open, hearing a quiet sniffling, then a choked gulp. 

 

Sam is standing at the sink; a towel wrapped around his waist, tousled locks of towel-dried hair falling around his face; tears streaming from his eyes and down his cheeks, as he stares at himself in the mirror. 

 

Dean’s first thought is – the wall. In an instant, he’s at Sam’s side; his hand on Sam’s arm, tugging Sam around so he can look into his face for any sign of trouble.

 

“Sam? What’s wrong?” Dean tries to tamp down his rising anxiety.

 

“I’m sorry, Dean…” Sam’s voice catches on a sob. “I shouldn’t have pushed you like that…” 

 

“It’s OK, Sam – I’m sorry, too.”

 

“It’s not OK; and you shouldn’t apologize – it’s my fault…” A fresh wave of tears courses down Sam’s face, and Dean rubs his arm, his back; trying to soothe him.

 

“I remember now, Dean – I know why you stopped. I remember coming on to you that last time in the shower… You caught me with that girl, and then I forced myself on you… I didn’t even care how you felt… how could I have been so cruel?”

 

“Shh, Sammy – it wasn’t your fault… it wasn’t you…” 

 

“But I hurt you, Dean – I know I did. And now you can’t even touch me…”

 

Dean reaches up to sweep his hand through Sam’s hair; then brushes the tears from Sam’s face. “I’m touching you now, Sammy; right?”

 

Sam nods, and leans his face into Dean’s hand. 

 

“So it’s OK…” Dean wraps his arms around Sam’s shivering body, and brings Sam’s head down to his shoulder. He runs his hands up and down Sam’s bare back, until the tears and trembling subside. 

 

Then he draws Sam into their bedroom, eases Sam down onto the bed, and lies beside him, holding his brother in the protective circle of his arms, trying his best to comfort him. 

 

But Sam won’t let it go. “I was horrible without a soul – wasn’t I? I can’t remember everything, but I do remember I hurt you.” His face twinges with pain and remorse. “I didn’t tell you I was back. How long was I back, Dean – a few months? A year? ”

 

“Doesn’t matter, Sam – we’re both here, now,” Dean sighs. He doesn’t want to get into this; not now. He doesn’t want to see Sam hurting like this.

 

“And then I took you away from Lisa and Ben to hunt with me, right? How could I take you away from your family like that?”

 

“You’re my family, Sam… my only family. It probably wouldn’t have worked out with them anyway.” As he says this, Dean realizes it’s true – as much as he’d grown to love Lisa and Ben, Sam is still the center of his life – the only person he’d ever go to Hell and back for.

 

“And did I really let that vamp turn you, Dean? As I just stood there and watched? … God, I am so sorry… that’s probably the worst thing I could ever do to you.”

 

Dean’s still horrified that Sam let him fall victim to the vampire, but he’s not going to let his brother know that. “”That was all kinds of messed up, Sammy, but you know, with the antidote, it worked out OK.” He gives Sam his best cocky grin. “Besides, I was a kick-ass vamp – I single-handedly laid waste to that nest.” 

 

“But Dean, I made you hate me.” Sam’s voice chokes on a sob. “I remember you beat me senseless at that truth goddess’ place.”

 

Dean strokes a lock of hair back from Sam’s forehead. “I never hated you, Sam. I was just so frustrated, and so angry – I should have known better, should have known then that it wasn’t you, but I couldn’t think straight. I’m sorry, that I beat the crap out of you, instead of trying to help you…”

 

“No, I deserved it. I remember that I flat-out told you that I didn’t care at all about you… but I hope you know that’s not true.” Tears leak from his eyes, and Sam’s voice cracks with emotion. “I still love you, Dean.” 

 

Dean reaches out to brush the moisture from Sam’s eyes. “I know, Sammy… I love you, too – never stopped…” 

 

“Then let me love you… please?” Sam’s pulling Dean closer, now; big hands in Dean’s hair, lips grazing his temple, his cheek, his ear, as Sam whispers, “Let me show you… prove it to you…”

 

And Dean realizes that they need this – it’s the one thing they’ve always had, no matter what’s happened. This physical bond is their source of strength, of solidarity, of healing. “You don’t have to prove anything, Sam… I know… But if you wanna show me…” Dean gives in with a small smile, meeting Sam’s lips with his. 

 

The kiss takes his breath away, and Dean nearly gets lost in the emotion, remembering the last time they’d kissed; that last morning of physical and emotional contact, before Sam had said yes to Lucifer’s possession. Even after Sam had come back into his life, one long and lonely year later; even before Dean knew that Sam wasn’t truly himself, he’d felt the chasm between them. And so he’d resigned himself that he’d never have this with Sam, ever again. And now, feeling Sam’s lips against his; Sam’s hands reaching beneath his T-shirt to touch his skin, Dean knows – he’s missed this so much.

 

He moves his lips down, tonguing the slight cleft of Sam’s chin and along Sam’s jaw line; buries his face in Sam’s neck. He breathes in the smell of clean soap, and underneath, a warm, slightly woodsy scent that is uniquely Sam. Dean realizes that Robo-Sam had no scent at all – another thing that was missing along with his soul. “Ahh, Sam… you smell so good…” He suckles the juncture of Sam’s neck and collarbone, making Sam moan.

 

Sam pulls Dean back up, so they’re face to face, eye to eye. Sam’s hazel eyes are soft with love and desire, as he holds Dean’s face between his hands. He kisses Dean deeply, sweeping his tongue inside Dean’s mouth, and Dean sucks gently on Sam’s tongue, tasting traces of coffee and whiskey. 

 

Sam breaks the kiss long enough to pull Dean’s T-shirt over his head, and then fastens his mouth on Dean’s again; his large hands brushing over every exposed bit of skin, making Dean shiver with the sensation. 

 

He flicks open the button and tugs down the zipper of Dean’s fly, working the worn denim jeans and the soft cotton knit boxers down past Dean’s hips and thighs; and Dean kicks his legs free of the clothing, pressing his naked body against Sam’s.

 

Dean runs his hands along the long muscles of Sam’s back, to his waist, feeling the soft, damp terry-cloth of the towel still wrapped around Sam’s middle. His traces his fingers around Sam’s hip to where the edges are tucked together, and works them apart, pulling the towel away, running his hand along Sam’s ass, and grinding their hips together. 

 

“Dean… let me…” Sam groans, his hands gripping Dean by the shoulder and hip; then in one deft movement, shifting and turning and stretching Dean out on his back, pinning him into the mattress and hovering above him. 

 

Dean’s eyes widen and his body tenses as he looks up at his brother. Sam’s always had a strong, well-built body, but Dean’s in good shape too, and he’d always felt they were on an equal level of toughness. But since it seemed like one of Robo-Sam’s only hobbies was working out like Rocky, Sam is now a mass of powerful, chiseled muscles and Dean knows that Sam could very likely, unthinkingly, hurt him. 

 

Sam gives Dean a sad little smile, and Dean knows that he can sense what’s on his mind. “Dean… please; trust me, OK? I just wanna love you, make you feel good…”

 

And Dean feels bad, that he’s let the misgivings of these past months seep into him, and intrude into their bed. He reminds himself that this is Sam – his Sam – and he says, “Yeah… I want that, Sam… I want you…”

 

He relaxes into Sam’s touch; long fingers smoothing over his skin; soft lips everywhere… tongue lightly grazing his nipples, dipping into his navel, moving down to lick at his hard shaft. Sam takes the head between his lips, tongue flicking at the slit, and then he opens wide, taking in Dean’s full length. Dean moans and twists in pleasure; his hands tangle in Sam’s long hair. 

 

“God, Sam… feels so good; don’t stop,” he babbles, losing sense of everything except the warm wetness of Sam’s mouth, and he thrusts his hips up and down; pushes in and out. Sam just grips one hand tightly on Dean’s hip, and wraps the other around the base, sucking rhythmically until Dean’s toes curl and he comes with a guttural cry. Sam gulps down every drop, then pulls off and rests his head on Dean’s thigh, giving Dean a slanting-eyed smile. 

 

Dean gives a gratified sigh and reaches down to caress his brother’s face. “C’mere…” 

 

Sam crawls up the length of Dean’s body, and Dean draws him down into a passionate kiss, tasting himself on Sam’s tongue; reaching down to stroke Sam’s hardness, until Sam’s moaning into his mouth. 

 

“Wanna be inside you, Dean… OK?”

 

“Yeah, Sam… want you…” Dean nods, and moves away for a moment, down to the foot of the bed, and reaches for his duffle bag. Then he stops for an awkward moment, remembering that it’s been a long while since he kept any supplies in there.

 

Sam seems to read his mind. “Maybe my bag?” he suggests softly, and Dean moves over to the other side of the bed, to Sam’s duffle on the floor. He opens it and feels around, until he finds the lube. Then his hand scrapes against the crisp edge of a foil packet. He pulls out a bundle of wrapped condoms, along with the lube, and turns around to Sam, giving him a questioning look.

 

Sam’s face falls, and he says in a low voice, “Guess we should use one of those, too… I’m sorry, Dean.” 

 

Dean doesn’t know what to say. They’d been apart for a year, and during that time Dean had enjoyed a loving, physical relationship with Lisa. He couldn’t have expected Sam to be celibate for all that time. He’d walked in on Sam with Patchouli Girl – he doubted that Sam even knew her name. Seems that Robo-Sam was promiscuous; had a thing for anonymous one night stands. But while Dean was monogamous, how many people did Sam have sex with? Were they all women, or were there men, too? 

 

Sam must see the pain on his face – he sits up and reaches his hand halfway out to Dean. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry – I don’t really remember much, but I guess that’s something else I did that’s hurt you,” he says tearfully. “But don’t those prove I was safe? And I’m sure it was only with women… there could never be any other guy; only you.” He takes the condom from Dean’s hand, and sets it with the lube on the night stand. He sits with his back against the headboard, and gives Dean a pleading look. “Just this once, we should use it… and after, I’ll get tested, and I promise – from now on, it’ll be you and me, only. Please, Dean – don’t be mad; are you mad?”

 

“I’m not mad, Sam – it wasn’t you, remember?” Dean says thickly. “I’m just sorry; so sorry that all this happened…that you had to be like that for so long… that we couldn’t stop the Apocalypse any other way.” He knows he’s on the edge of the topic of Hell, but he can’t help it. He runs a hand roughly through his short hair. “We’ve been through so much – I just wish we could get a break here.”

 

“This is our break, Dean – at least for now.” Sam reaches out to clasp Dean’s hand, his eyes imploring as they gaze into Dean’s. And Dean realizes that he’s right. Sam finally has his soul back; they have a chance to be together again. Sam and Dean, against the world again. 

 

“Guess we should just take what we can get, then,” Dean says with a sigh, but he squeezes Sam’s hand and gives him a reassuring smile. He lets Sam pull him down, onto his lap, and returns Sam’s deep kiss. 

 

Chest to chest, their hearts beat the same steady rhythm, slowly speeding up as their kisses grow more passionate and their erections grow harder, sliding against each other. 

 

Dean drags his lips away for a moment, and moves to lie on his back. But Sam grabs his wrists gently, keeping Dean on his lap. 

 

“Do you want to stay like this? I think it feels good... and we can do whatever you want…”

 

The idea that Sam wants Dean to take control, even as the bottom this time, sends a rush of anticipation down Dean’s spine. It says a lot, that Sam wants Dean to trust him and to be comfortable with taking him in. “Yeah…” Dean straddles Sam, his thighs squeezing Sam’s hips, and kisses Sam until they’re both breathless.

 

He grabs the lube and smears Sam’s fingers with it, guiding Sam’s hand behind him. Sam slowly pushes one finger into Dean; then two, and Dean presses against his searching fingers until they rub against his most sensitive spot, and he arches his back in pleasure.

 

“Now, Sam…” Dean gasps.

 

He tears open the condom packet and Sam holds himself still as Dean rolls the sheath down Sam’s shaft. He slicks more lube onto Sam; then grasps the base as he slowly eases, inch by inch, down onto Sam’s length. He throws his head back, eyes closed, until he’s fully seated.

 

“OK?” Sam whispers, and Dean opens his eyes, to see his brother’s concerned face, so close to his. 

 

“Yeah,” he says, leaning into Sam’s lips, and beginning to move slowly as Sam grasps his hips. He grips the headboard with one hand and digs his toes into the sheets for leverage; starting to move faster. 

 

“God, Dean… the way you look… the way you feel…” Sam tightens his arms around his brother and holds him close, Dean’s hardness pressed between their bodies.

 

Dean moves all the way to the tip, then slides down, rolling his hips as he rides Sam with abandon. 

 

“Getting so close,” Sam gasps, thrusting into Dean, moving with him.

 

“Me, too.” Dean smooths Sam’s hair back as he kisses Sam’s forehead, eyes; licks down the bridge of his nose; runs his tongue along Sam’s lips, across his cheek, and along the rim of his ear. “Feels so good, Sam… want you, want this always…” he breathes into Sam’s ear.

 

Sam pulls back to look deep into Dean’s eyes. “I love you, Dean,” he says in a quavering voice, eyes welling. “Heart and soul.”

 

The words are so sentimental, and if anyone else said them, the “chick-flick moment” would make Dean cringe with discomfort. But this is Sam, and his genuine emotions laid bare, and the intensity of the moment sends a surge of feeling through Dean that’s so strong it makes him tremble and bring tears to his eyes. It feels amazing; after all this time, and all they’ve been through, Dean feels closer to Sam than ever. Dean holds his gaze; places his hand on the spot where Death pressed Sam’s soul into his chest. “Sam, I love you…” And then he’s coming, holding on fast; Sam right behind him, sobbing and shouting each other’s names.

 

***

 

After they’ve cleaned themselves up and salted all the doors and windows; checked to make sure their guns are at the ready and their clothes are within reach, the brothers collapse in each other’s arms, pillows propped up against the headboard; the bedcovers drawn up snug and warm around them. 

 

“Can’t believe I’m tired again,” Sam says, with a little shake of his head.

 

“Let’s just rest up and make the most of this down time – I’m sure we’ll have work to do soon enough.” Dean says vaguely.

 

“Is there a job?”

 

“Nah, not right now,” Dean says – it’s not the right time for this conversation; he doesn’t want to worry Sam. “But you know something will come up – it never ends.”

 

“Dean, there is something, right?” Sam gives his shoulder a little shake; makes Dean look into his hazel eyes. His brother knows him too well, Dean thinks. He knows when Dean’s trying to avoid something. “Did you make some kind of deal with Death for my soul?”

 

“Well, I kind of screwed up the first deal,” Dean admits. “And I don’t even know exactly what Death wants – he said I should keep digging; it’s something to do with souls. He said I’ll understand when I need to.” 

 

“I’ll help you, Dean – whatever you need. I can handle it. I’m better now.”

 

“Are you sure, Sam? How do you feel?”

 

“I feel OK – like myself again,” Sam asserts. “You know, still tired… but I’m good; we’re good. It’s almost like it was before.”

 

Dean looks at Sam carefully; then asks haltingly, “Sam…what’s the last thing you remember? From before?”

 

Sam’s brow furrows, then he gives Dean a soft smile. “I remember that morning; being with you like this… I thought it would be our last time, ever…”

 

Dean presses gentle lips against Sam’s. “Me too… but we were wrong, weren’t we?”

 

“And I remember saying yes…” Sam grimaces, and Dean tightens his grip around Sam’s shoulder. “I remember Lucifer crowding inside me… remember trying to fight him.”

 

“Sam, it’s all right; you don’t have to go on…”

 

“No, I want to tell you – I remember Lucifer using me to beat you, Dean; I tried to stop him, but I couldn’t. I’m so sorry he made me hurt you…” Sam winces at the memory. 

 

“It’s OK, Sam…” Dean squeezes Sam’s hand in his. 

 

“I remember that’s what you kept saying … that it was OK; that you wouldn’t leave me… and then this light hit my eyes – it was a glint off the little toy soldier we’d kept in the car’s ashtray, from when we were kids, remember?”

 

“Yeah…” Dean does remember – two little boys and the Impala; innocently playing at being warriors, while their father was fighting his own battles.

 

“And then, everything came rushing at me, Dean – you know, like they say your life passes before your eyes, before you die? Every memory, of you and me – our whole lives…it was amazing…” Sam gazes off with a wondering smile, as if seeing it all again. “It pulled me back to the surface; gave me the strength to fight… and the very last thing I remember was locking eyes with you. Your ruined face… it made me so sad… but I was so grateful that you were right there with me…” Tears spill from his eyes, and Dean holds him closer, stroking his hair, his back.

 

“Shh, Sam – it’s OK; I’m here; I won’t ever leave you. You don’t need to go any further…”

 

“But I want you to know… if I had come back whole, I would have found you right away, Dean. I would have told you that my last thought, as I fell, was of you.”

 

Dean can’t even find the words to express how this makes him feel. He looks into the face of his amazing brother, and says, “Sam… you saved the world.”

 

“You helped…” Dean shakes his head, and Sam insists, “Seriously, Dean – I couldn’t have done what I had to do without you.”

 

“OK,” Dean concedes. “I guess I helped. But it’s not like we’re ever gonna get a medal to fight over.” 

 

Sam grins at Dean’s wry humor. “Yeah, no one except for us and Bobby and Cas knows how close it all was to ending…” His serious expression returns. “But I guess that’s the point of it all, isn’t it?”

 

“Yeah…” Dean sighs. “But I don’t want you to try to remember anything more, now – OK?”

 

“The wall, right?” Sam’s voice hitches with fearful uncertainty. “Do you think it will come down if I remember more?”

 

“I don’t know, Sammy… but we’re not gonna test it, OK? I’m sorry – we shouldn’t have even gone this far…”

 

“I can feel it, you know.” A little wrinkle appears between Sam’s eyebrows as he tries to explain. “It’s like a tiny pebble in your shoe, or an eyelash in the corner of your eye. It doesn’t hurt or feel really uncomfortable, but I’m aware it’s there.”

 

“Try not to think about it,” Dean implores. “Remember, Death said not to scratch it.”

 

“What if it’s not as strong as we need it to be, Dean? What if it starts to crumble?” Sam’s voice rises with anxiety.

 

Dean lays a gentle finger across Sam’s lips. “Shh, Sam – don’t even go there. We won’t let that happen – I can’t get inside your mind, but I’ll do whatever I can to help you hold it up; keep it solid,” he tries to reassure his brother. “I promised you a long time ago that I would always look after you; protect you; save you. I won’t ever let anything happen to you, as long as I’m here. OK?”

 

“OK…” Sam murmurs; then yawns. He looks at Dean with sleepy eyes, and Dean realizes he’ll likely need to sleep much longer, until he’s back to full strength.

 

“Rest now, Sammy…” Dean runs a hand through his brother’s long locks. “I’ll be right here…”

 

“I know, Dean… thanks…” 

 

Dean slides them down to lie full-length in bed and tucks the covers up around them tight. He rests his hand on Sam’s chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath warm skin; as Sam drifts into sleep, one leg thrown around Dean; little puffs of breath evening out on Dean’s shoulder. 

 

Dean hears the creaks of Bobby’s old house as it settles around them. His eyelids grow heavy, and this time, he welcomes sleep, and the momentary peace it brings to his own soul.

 

*end*


End file.
